


The Jack-Knife Had It Coming

by Ferryman



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Banter, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sex Discussion, Silly, Slow Burn, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:42:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferryman/pseuds/Ferryman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Thoughts of sharing pre-ejaculate due to the high prices of lube lead to something more..." Summary by fanperson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Jack-Knife

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Складной нож заслужил то, что случилось...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9486857) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Russian translation also available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5184422).

Sherlock is restless.

 

For the last two hours, John has watched him moving around the flat like a flying insect collecting pollen. His blue dressing gown, billowing after him, makes John imagine a gigantic butterfly seeking nourishment in a tiny, empty garden.

 

Pace. Stop. A light touch to the curtains.

 

Pace. Stop. A finger stroking the wall.

 

Pace. Stop. Now in the kitchen. John is at the table in the sitting room, so he can't see what Sherlock is doing there.

 

Pace. Stop. In front of the fireplace. Hovering, with his hands fisted in the pockets of his dressing gown.

 

He has his back to John, and seems to be looking at the correspondence, which rests transfixed by a jack-knife over the aforementioned fireplace.

 

John sees him pull out his right hand, spread his fingers and touch the pile of envelopes. Then, he strokes the blade lightly with the pad of his index finger, up and down, as if enjoying the coolness and the smoothness of the metal. The finger travels up one last time and end up rubbing the little metal circles at the base of the handle... where the rest of the fingers (including the thumb) join in.

All together now, the fingers caress the handle, circling around it and moving all the way up to the rounded split end.

 

Down now.

 

Up again.

 

The pad of his thumb rubs the twin metal circles at the end of the handle.

 

Down again.

 

Up now.

 

John is staring. He watches the movement and, because he is an adult so ‘purity of mind’ be damned, feels how his lips curl into a smile.

 

Sherlock’s hand is doing something that could be _remotely_ porny. _Porny. Sherlock._

 

John is chuckling before he can stop himself.

 

 

Sherlock looks back at the sound and takes a second to observe John, who’s watching determinedly at the screen of his laptop. He can feel the intent gaze on his face, and the fact that Sherlock can -and will- deduce what made him laugh a moment ago makes it even worse. John, ever the soldier, fights to repress the laughter. He licks his lips, then bites them, but all to no avail.

 

"Oh, what? I read something funny, okay?" He says, shrugging defensively and pointing at his laptop with his hands, blushing from the effort to control himself and finally laughs anyway, looking up at Sherlock.

 

Who is staring at him with a little derisive smile on his face which tells John that he has read it all fast and efficiently, as expected.

 

“Pervert.”

 

“I’m not a pervert! I’m practicing... I-I have to pay attention to these little details that show things about people,” Sherlock makes a face of extreme incredulity at that, “in real life, and then use them in my stories! ( _what, exactly, I’m getting myself into?!)_ I have to get a grasp of... subtext!”

 

“Subtext,” Sherlock says in a deadpan tone of voice. “You’re going to write _that_ about _me_ in your blog.”

 

“What? No! no-absolutely not! what made you... Look,” John does look mortified, “I was just explaining that it happens sometimes and it can be useful if you are a... narrator.” _Narrator_ is more dignifying than _blogger_ , and he can use some dignity right now. “I-I know that you notice things and deduce facts, but when we, ordinary people, read books and watch movies or tv series or... whatever, and characters do things that can be read as suggestive... we, sometimes, and some people more than others..., read them as suggestive,” he finished lamely. “It just happens in real life too and it’s funny. Sometimes it’s funny. Like now.”

 

“It doesn’t happen to me. When I look at a jack knife I see a jack knife, not a phallic object.”

 

“That’s because you are you!” At Sherlock’s confused frown, John tries to buy himself some credit. “That knife is a perfect phallic object!” John cries. “Oh, for the..., look at it, standing there all... proudly!” Sherlock does look at it, then at John and then back again at the knife. John catches his reflection on the mirror above the fireplace. He’s frowning and looking sideways.

 

“Ahem, John. Tell me, how many _suggestive_ objects can you see in this room? Just so, you know, I can throw them away, if possible, or at least not touch them or look at them _suggestively._ ”

 

“Okay Sherlock, leave it, okay? Leave it. I don’t even know why we are having this conversation! It’s not like I have done anything, for god’s sake! I just chuckled! Can’t I chuckle? Privately?”

 

“You chuckled _aloud_ because you were imagining _me_ masturbating a jack-knife!”

 

“ _Yessso_ what?! I was watching you fidgeting around and then you stopped and started to stroke the jack-knife with those long fingers of yours and I thought ‘it looks like he’s...’ and then ‘It’s Sherlock!’ and then I chuckled.” John stops to breathe.”I wasn’t even laughing at you, I was laughing at me! Okay? At my subconscious, for being ridiculous!”

 

“Why is it ridiculous?”

 

“Why is it... because you don’t... I-I don’t...” He makes a pause and tries to find the right thing to say, which is frankly difficult, given the circumstances and his interlocutor. “Look, if it had been an old nun, instead of you, it would also have been funny.”

 

“And an old priest?”

 

“Nope, not funny. I would have felt sorry for him. Maybe. Maybe not. It’d depend on the context. And the priest.”

 

“Because I don’t... what? What were you going to say?” Sherlock asks, staring at John through eyes half-closed with suspicion. “What do we have in common, your little old nun and I? What makes us _sooo funny_?”

 

“Not you! I told you, not you! Not the poor old nun! Me! It’s funny that I imagine _you_ having something to do with sex! Because it’s... I don’t know... wrong, I suppose, like imagining an old nun and sex would be!”

 

“Why?”

 

“You tell me. No, that came out wrong. I mean, don’t you see? You... seem to be... above... all that.”

 

“Sex.”

 

“Yes! It’s not something you ever... I don’t know... talk about or even seem to think about, unless it’s to make some remark about Anderson and Sally, of course... you-you know what I mean.”

 

“You are trying to say that thinking about me and sex is like thinking about an old nun and sex.”

 

“Yes! Mmm...more or less.”

 

Sherlock looks at him triumphantly and sniffs.

 

“Like I said, then. You _are_ a pervert.”

 

“Alright. You win. I’m a pervert. You’re right, as always. Can we stop having this conversation now?” John smiles sweetly and goes back to his laptop. Sherlock decides it’s a good time to flop dramatically on his armchair and so he does.

 

Half an hour elapses in an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the tap-tap sound from John’s fingers over his keyboard and the tap-tap sound from Sherlock fingers over the armrests of his armchair.

 

Sherlock clears his voice.

 

“In your perverted scenario, the jack-knife was _my_ jack-knife or was anybody else’s...”

 

“I don’t know!” John interrupts the question. “It wasn’t a whole scenario! It was a just a quick, ill-advised image!”

 

Sherlock hums. The next time he speaks is about ten minutes later.

 

“You mentioned my _long_ fingers. I suppose they are. Then again, I have long hands.” He comments, exposing those fingers in front of his eyes.

 

“Hmm.”

 

“Why did you say ‘long’?”

 

“Because they’re long.”

 

“Yes. But why did you see the need to specify?”

 

“Sherlock.” John can make a first name sound like a warning.

 

Another half an hour in silence, and John starts to think that the topic is finally settled.

 

Nothing further from reality.

 

“I do,” Sherlock says.

 

“You do what,” John mutters in response.

 

“Masturbate. Sometimes.”

 

ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff...

 

One hundred and forty nine ‘f’s appear on John’s screen. Apparently, one of his fingers has got stuck on the keyboard at Sherlock’s words.

 

“Oh. You do?”

 

“Yes. That’s what I said just now. Has your little mind forgotten it already?”

 

“Well, sorry, but I really wasn’t expecting to hear that.” A long minute of heavy, pregnant silence follows.

 

“I just don’t indulge very often.”

 

John tries to put his ‘doctor’ mode 'on' because, honestly, he doesn’t know how else to speak with Sherlock, _Sherlock_ , about this.

 

“Do you... erm, have any physical problem? Phimosis? Retarded ejaculation?” He sees Sherlock curly black hair shaking a ‘no’.

 

“No... It’s not anything really out of ‘normal’” Sherlock says somewhat hesitantly.

 

“Yes?”

 

“It’s just that I... “ even not being able to watch his face, John could tell he is grimacing. “... leak.”

 

“Well,” John says quickly, in what he expects is a soothing and professional voice. “The emission of pre-seminal fluid is perfectly normal and...”

 

“I know it’s normal.” Sherlock interrupts. “But in my case it’s... copious. It’s... so messy.” Somehow it’s getting difficult for John to keep this conversation even a tiny bit above the level of what’s considered surreal.

 

“But, you’d say it’s normal? I mean, the colour, the texture, the smell...”

 

“Yes, yes, yes, the texture, the smell, the taste, everything is normal.”

 

The taste.

 

 _The taste_.

 

John highs up his ‘doctor’ mode to ‘turbo’.

 

“Okay. If everything’s normal, then, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Some men can have this symptom when suffering from prostatorrhea, but I’m sure it’s not your case. I mean, it only happens when you are... ”

 

“Masturbating, yes.”

 

John really, _really_ , wants to finish this conversation and go to drown himself in the bathtub.

 

Sherlock turns over in the armchair and sits cross-legged, facing John. He rests his fingers on the back of the seat while observing his friend and making all sorts of accurate deductions about John’s actual state of ‘acute weirdness’.

 

“I don’t really think it’s abnormally copious either, it’s just...”

 

“Well, you can consider it an advantage. Think of the saving on lube, hehe!” John tries a little lightness to lessen the _whitish_ thickness of the air that is filling the room.

 

“... just,” Sherlock repeats, “... that I hate seeing myself so messy and needy...” His mouth twists in distaste. “...seeking release in such a _primal_ fashion.” He looks at John with an expression of disgusted wonder. “And to think that you like to do it all the time.”

 

John bites his tongue with his front teeth and purses his lips.

 

“Not all the time.”

 

“I didn’t mean you. I meant ‘you people’. In general.”

 

“I still find myself in that group and I can tell you _it’s not all the time_.” Sherlock dismisses the comment with a wave of his hand.

 

“Anyway, I can’t see the appeal of an act which metaphorically _and_ literally drains me and leaves me all sweaty and dirty. Why do you like it so much?”

 

John tries to smile but it comes out more like a rictus.

 

“Because it feels good. And it’s free. Almost free, actually, since I _do_ have to use _lube_ if I want to make _things_ smooth and nice!” John says, clearly irritated.

 

“Oh, so sorry I can’t lend you some of mine, since I have _so much_ to spare!” Sherlock cries in retaliation. Then, a mere second later, his face freezes. John mirrors his expression.

 

Sherlock blushes.

 

John is already red in the face for different reasons, so he can only become purple.

 

Somewhere in the city, a clock chimes the hour.

 

Inside the sitting room, all sorts of vivid imageries fly between John and Sherlock.

 

“I...” John’s voice is missing, so it doesn’t really sound like an ‘I’. He tries again: “I’m going to open the window, do you mind?”

 

“No, by all means, go ahead.” Sherlock’s voice is a bit raspy, but it’s steadier than John’s.

 

A breeze enters the room from the street. Sherlock shivers. Standing by the window, John can see his nipples hardening through his threadbare t-shirt.

 

Sherlock shivers again.

 

Then, he gasps.

 

Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on John’s face. John’s gaze is still glued to his friend’s chest. He licks his lips.

 

In a sudden motion, Sherlock gets up, crosses the room to the kitchen, crosses the kitchen, passes the bathroom, enters his bedroom and shuts the door.

 

John stands by the window. He weighs up the situation.

 

He can stay here and try to write some more.

 

_Right now, impossible._

 

He can have a long, hot, relaxing bath.

 

_Sherlock is in his bedroom. Too near._

 

He can have a long, cold shower.

 

_Sherlock is in his bedroom. Too near._

 

He can make tea.

 

_Sod the tea._

 

He can go up to his room and...

 

_Yes_

 

John adjusts himself, goes up to his room and closes the door.

 

 

 


	2. The Bottle of Water

 

* * *

 

"Pass me your phone."

"My phone? Why don't you use yours?"

"Molly has it. Your phone, please." John hands it to him. Sherlock takes it without looking up from the microscope.

"Only hope you're not texting a psycho-killer."

"Mmm, psycho-killer, no. I'm texting Lestrade."

"Oh. You're on a case then. "

"A closed one. Kills the boredom." He finishes the text and leaves the phone on the lab's table.

John sighs. "Then, why did you text me to come to Bart's _directly_ after work? I thought you might need me for something imp... wait, you didn't make me come here only to use my phone, did you? No, you texted me from _your_ phone... and what's Molly doing with it anyway?"

"Molly is in the apothecary fetching chemicals. The list's on my phone."

John's head falls back in frustration. "You made me come here to use my phone," he whines.

Sherlock's attention is back to the microscope, remarkably unaffected by John's complaint.

"Did you have anything better to do?"

"Actually yes, believe or not." John answers, mostly to himself. He feels too defeated even to pretend being resented. He also knows it doesn't work, anyway. "Okay, I'm starving. I'm going to grab a sandwich, do you want anything?"

"Just coffee, please." Sherlock says without looking up. A second later he lifts his head just a fraction. "No, wait. Bring me some water too."

"A... bottle of water?"

"Yes, please."

"O-okay. A coffee and a bottle of water. Be right back."

John exits the lab without waiting for a response from Sherlock. He takes the stairs briskly, scolding himself all the way down to the canteen.

~~~~

 _This_ _has_ _to_ _stop_ _!_

For some weeks now he has been paying attention to certain _things_. _Things_ like Sherlock's daily intake of water. It is not a premeditated act. Nothing like _I_ _'_ _m_ _going_ _to_ _keep_ _a_ _record_ _of_ _how_ _much_ _water_ _he_ _drinks_ _per_ _day_   weird sort of thing. He's just noticing when Sherlock seems to be particularly thirsty, that's all.

 _No_ _,_ _it_ _isn_ _'_ _t_ _._

In the canteen, John grimaces in front of one of the refrigerated showcases.

If he had to be entirely honest with himself, he would have to admit that he has some kind of morbid curiosity about his friend. He is like an addictive puzzle, one that becomes more insolvable and more addictive with each new clue.

And John knows he is absolutely hooked on it. Hooked from the start. Furthermore, the Irene Adler's affair had taught him one or two things about himself and his twisted anticipation towards the _romantic_ _?_ _vulnerable_ _?_ _human_ _?_ side of his flatmate.

It's not just curiosity. It's the obsessive need to unravel the mystery of Sherlock Holmes.

"Are there so many options?" A blonde girl in a white coat is beside him. "I only see tuna _or_ salad sandwiches."

"Oh, sorry." He opens the door and picks a tuna sandwich.

"It's okay. I still have a _whole_ _five_ _minutes_ left to eat my sandwich and to drink my coffee." He watches dreamily as the bad-tempered girl takes a salad sandwich and passes by to ask for her coffee.

He shakes his head.

 _I_ _should_ _get_ _a_ _hobby_ _._

The fact that Sherlock decided to talk about his masturbatory habits has left him a bit... disturbed. And not only because he is now on a daily basis ( _he_ _said_ _he_ _doesn_ _'_ _t_ _indulge_ _often_ ) worrying a little too much about whether Sherlock might or might not be a teensy bit dehydrated ( _he_ _said_ _copious_ _,_ _not_ _abnormally_ _copious_ ). Well, this is only an example of basic, common and vulgar curiosity of the worst kind, after all.

No, no, he feels a bit... moved, somehow, because Sherlock shared with him a conversation that an adult male of thirty-something hardly shares with another adult male of thirty-something. Unless the other adult male is a doctor. Which is the case. Only that Sherlock doesn't consider him his doctor. Not really.

It was disturbing. Earth-shattering, even. He has felt how Sherlock has shut the door on his face, metaphorically and literally, every time he has tried to... intrude, in one way or another. To say that Sherlock is an extremely private person is the understatement of the century.

Nevertheless, one day, completely out of the blue, he finds that Sherlock is willing to discuss with him such an intimate and pathetically human weakness.

It was a weird evening. Awfully weird, to be honest. But there are so many weird things about Sherlock that, could he really swear that this one had been the _weirdest_ _one_ _?_

Then again, when he thinks about _how_ it ended...

He shakes himself and quickens his pace to the counter.

"Two coffees, please." He orders. "And... a bottle of water."

"Water's in that fridge." The boy at the counter answers with a bored tone.

 _But_ _..._ _we_ _had_ _been_ _discussing_ _sex_ _all_ _evening_ _!_

And he didn't get aroused by Sherlock, but by _Sherlock_ _'_ _s_ _arousal_. It was _empathy._ Besides, the fact that Sherlock became aroused by the thought of sharing his pre-ejaculate with him ( _Oh_ _._ _My_ _._ _God_ _._ _Let_ _me_ _die_ _right_ _now_ ) wasn't anything more than... flattering, really.

Or maybe it hadn't occurred to Sherlock before that such a thing could be done and he, John, as an individual, had nothing to do with Sherlock's arousal. What was even better, wasn't it?

 _It_ _is_ _._ _Of_ _course_ _it_ _is_ _._

_  
~~~_

When John finally gets to the lab, about forty-five minutes later, Sherlock does not acknowledge his presence at first, remaining in the same position for a few seconds. Then, he raises his eyes to look at John with an inquisitive expression.

"Did you go all the way to Colombia for that coffee?"

"What?" John adopts a defensive stance, but immediately shakes it off. "Next time you go to get your own coffee," he says, without rancour, opening the bag and taking out his sandwich. He leaves the bottle of water and the sugared coffee next to Sherlock. He notices that his mobile phone is there too. Molly has been back, then.

"We're almost finished here." Sherlock says, taking a sip from the paper cup.

"Great." John takes a bite of the sandwich and tries not to think about anything at all while he waits for Sherlock to finish at the lab.

* * *

An hour later, they are walking their way home.

Sherlock has taken the half-emptied bottle of water with him, and he's moving it to and fro as he walks.

"So. You didn't take the case. Yesterday." John doesn't ask.

"The weren't worth my time. Boring."

" _They_? As in more than one?"

"Oh, you were referring to the last client, the handsome young man? Well, an old lady came by a couple of hours before. You were at the clinic. Wasn't worth mentioning. Like I said, boring."

Suddenly and before he has time to think about why, John feels a bit flustered.

Sherlock's words keep ringing in his ears for a whole minute before he dares ask, summoning an air of nonchalance, "Hmm, so, did you... think he was handsome?"

"Didn't you?"

"I... suppose so." He only saw him at the door, just when he was about to leave for a pint with Stamford, but he had noticed that he was tall, bulky, with white teeth and a charming smile. "Rugby player?" That question earns him a hum of appraisal from Sherlock.

" _Amateur_. You're getting better." John blushes from the compliment like a fanboy in front of his idol.

"Well, he didn't look the brainy type, did he?" John says, feigning indifference.

"He's a math's professor, John."

"Really?" He sniffs and tries to hide his embarrassment.

"Yes, it was _obvious_." Sherlock says in a low voice, half-smiling, almost teasingly.

And still without knowing why, John starts to feel angry.

"Oh, such a _handsome_ math's professor..." Sherlock looks at him with an amused frown, but John goes on, annoyed. "It's a pity, then. That he couldn't get you that much interested," _keep_ _it_ _cool_ _,_ _keep_ _it_ _cool_ , "in the case, I mean, of course. _In_ _the_ _case_ ," he adds.

Sherlock lessens his pace gradually until he finally stops and gives him a piercing and baffled look. John smiles a fake innocent _Well_ _?_ _Are_ _we_ _stopping_ _now_ _?,_ although his hands betray his uneasiness. And because _only_ _God_ _knows_ _why_ he needs to prove a point, he pursues his lips, fixes his eyes on the bottle of water and then back to his friend's face.

Sherlock raises his arm and stares at bottle, confusedly. But a few seconds later his expression brightens in understanding. He then looks up, scans the street, spots a nearby bin, goes to it and stuffs the bottle in it. He calls for John without looking back at him.

"Coming?"

"Yes." John hastens his steps to get to Sherlock.

They walk in silence for a few minutes. And with each passing second, John's mood gets darker.

 _What_ _was_ _this_ _all_ _about_ _?_ _What_ _am_ _I_ _?_ _Fifteen_ _?_

"Sorry." John says, a bit curtly.

"You're not." Sherlock doesn't look at him. John pursues his lips again but he doesn't say anything.

 _But_ _I_ _am_ _._ _I_ _'_ _m_ _sorry_ _and_ _ashamed_ _and_ _right_ _now_ _I_ _only_ _want_ _to_ _go_ _back_ _in_ _time_ _and_ _erase_ _everything_ _from_ _that_ _evening_ _to_ _right_ _now_ _._ _Because_ _I_ _'_ _m_ _being_ _immature_ _and_ _I_ _don_ _'_ _t_ _deserve_ _your_ _trust_ _even_ _if_ _this_ _is_ _the_ _first_ _time_ _I_ _do_ _something_ _so_ _absolutely_ _rude_ _and_ _mean_ _to_ _you_ _._

His guilt and self-contempt are draining him and he can only give a few more steps before he stops, grabbing Sherlock from the arm of his coat.

His friend also halts and tugs his arm free.

"Look, I am sorry. I'm so sorry and ashamed that I don't even know... It's none of my business, okay? At all. And here I am trying to get you to admit... what?! It's like I'm becoming Dr. McCoy or something, for god's sake! I've been a dick, okay? I'm sorry." He licked his lips nervously, looking hopefully up at Sherlock.

"You thought..." His friend says as if he couldn't finish the sentence and shakes his head, smiling in disbelief and then laughing sourly.

John hasn't felt so embarrassed in his whole life.

"Sherlock. Just, forget it. Please. Forget what I sa... what I... what happened just now." John pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't know what else to say. Please." He admits, defeated.

The seconds pass. A few people get in the pub at the corner of the street. A young woman cries and laughs at the door and John looks back at her, startled.

"It..." As always, Sherlock's voice has a magnetic effect on John's attention. "It... it doesn't work like that for me" Sherlock says, slowly, without meeting John's eyes.

John freezes.

"What..." He stops to lick his dry lips with his suddenly dry tongue. "What do you mean?"

"It's not... like that. Like it works for you." He gives John an oblique glance.

"Why not?"

"Bodies, looks, smiles, legs... It just doesn't work." John's heart begins to thump in his chest loudly.

"What then?"

"It's just a bodily function. For me. Like eating or excreting."

 _No_ _._ _No_ _,_ _it_ _isn_ _'_ _t_ _._

"You... you mean..." John starts, hesitantly. "You mean you don't get..."

"Yes." He nods. "Exactly. I don't just see someone and..." he waves his hand eloquently. "I can't let myself be all worked up by stimuli I can't control."

John shakes his head with incredulity, but trying to understand.

"But...you said... you said you..."

"Yeeees," he drawls impatiently, "yes, like I eat, like I breathe and it's boring! It's all deadly boring! Are you being intentionally thick?" He spits, in a fit of annoyance. "I just don't. Like that." Sherlock shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet.

 _You_ _don_ _'_ _t_ _want_ _to_ _,_ _but_ _you_ _do_ _._ _I_ _know_ _you_ _do_ _._

John looks up at him with his mouth slightly agape, with his face in an odd expression of expectancy and disbelief.

 _But_ _I_ _was_ _there_ _._ _I_ _saw_ _._

"It just... doesn't work." Sherlock repeats.

 _Yes_ _,_ _it_ _does_ _._ _It_ _worked_ _that_ _evening_ _._ _It_ _works_ _._

 _I_ _know_ _it_ _works_ _._

"Let's go home." Sherlock says annoyingly and dashes to hail a cab.

* * *

That night at the flat they don't talk. Sherlock sits at the kitchen table and takes notes on his laptop. A piece of cottage pie and a tiny box with human nails keep him company.

John watches telly without paying attention. He feels frustrated and angry and he doesn't especially want to know why.

Later, when he wishes Sherlock goodnight, it's more out of habit.


	3. The Jumper I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fleetwood_Mouse took pity on me and beta'ed this chapter. Thank you so much! ^_^

 

"Well then, I'll go upstairs to unpack my things."

Sherlock gives him a brief glance and nods minutely.

Once out of the room, John leans back on the door, looks at the stairs up to his old bedroom and let a wave of nostalgia wash over him. It's all there: the handrail in perpetual need of varnish, the worn wooden steps, the slightly stale smell in the air... He mounts the stairs unhurriedly, treasuring the moment just like he would with something half-lost and half-recovered.

Two years. It has been two years since the last time he spent the night at Baker Street.

He enters the bedroom, leaves his sports bag on the bed and unzips it, taking out a pair of vests, two shirts, a toothbrush, pyjamas, clean underwear and socks. He doesn't expect to be here more than a couple of days. Mary will be back home on Monday.

When he texted Sherlock that he was going to spend the weekend alone - Mary was off on a trip to visit some relatives - his friend offered him his old bedroom, "for old time's sake." When he arrived this evening, Sherlock's manner was not effusive, but John thinks he was glad to see him.

Although they have been in contact since Sherlock's return some months before, apart from the couple of cases that his friend has shared with him, they have not seen much of each other. During the two years of Sherlock's absence, John has built a new life. A normal, ordinary life, full of working hours, busy weekends and, quite recently, also full of homely bliss. It had been hard to endure, this _normal_ life, at first. But then again, John is a survivor, and survivors know by instinct how to get through.

John sits on the bed and takes a moment to let his eyes wander through the room.

_I've missed this._

He closes his eyes and tries to pretend, for a second, that this is where he lives, that he has never left, that Sherlock...

_Sherlock._

John smiles to himself and opens his eyes. Sherlock has not changed much. He is a bit thinner, a tiny bit paler maybe, but these two years abroad don't seem to have softened his character in the least. He is still the volatile, moody and detached mad genius with an odd penchant for his not-so- _bachelor_ -anymore sidekick and blogger John Watson.

Still, things have changed.

The most important one is, from John's point of view, his own perception of their relationship.

He had always thought that they were somewhat equals in their friendship, but now he can't fool himself any longer. A punch in the face cannot even begin to compensate for the two years during which Sherlock did _not need_ him, did _not even want_ him to know that he was indeed very much alive. And he... he had been mourning. He had needed to go back to therapy.

_Not so much equilibrium there._

John's lips twist into a sour line of self-deprecation. Because, how many times a day does he check his phone to see if Sherlock has texted him? Did he not leave Mary at the restaurant the last time Sherlock called him? And they were at the starters, for god's sake! John chuckles softly. And Mary had wanted him to tell her everything when he finally got home that night, her face the very picture of eager anticipation. A pair of lunatics, that's what they are. He is lucky to have her.

Sherlock is as busy as ever. He has lots of work to do, which is good for him, really. He calls John when he thinks the case could be especially interesting. _Or when he wants an audience._ Maybe it was always like that, before, and he never noticed. He has never been good at that. At noticing Sherlock's designs.

John shakes his head.

_I'm a moth and he's the flame._

He gets as close as Sherlock lets him, and that's all there is to it. There's no point in wallowing in self-... nothing.

He takes out his phone and calls Mary, as he promised he would do.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later John's sitting in the living-room, sipping at a cup of tea, while Sherlock stands before the fire. He hasn't spoken much, simply waving John to his old armchair and glancing briefly at him every now and then, as if in need to check his presence while thinking about something else. He certainly would look nervous and even shy to everyone else... but not to John. Eventually, he turns his head to his friend and looks him over in his singular way.

"Marriage suits you," he remarks.

"I'm not married." John frowns a little.

"Is there any difference, apart from the bureaucracy?" John stares at his friend for a few seconds before answering.

"No, I suppose there isn't. Not really."

"Well, you look good," he sniffs. "How much have you put on lately? Four pounds?" Sherlock arches an eyebrow inquiringly.

"Three!"

"Indeed?" Sherlock smirks. "I wouldn't rely much on those bathroom scales."

John shakes his head and chuckles.

"Alright, I'll check my weight at the clinic, okay?" He smiles at his friend with affection for a minute. Sherlock is wearing a tailored suit and a slim fit burgundy shirt. They look good on him. He's standing still, but he's tapping his fingers over the fireplace, unable to keep inside that lean body all his pent-up energy.

John inhales deeply and reclines his back on his armchair. At times like this, it feels truly wonderful just being alive.

"How about you? Have you had any interesting cases recently? I have to keep my blog updated."

"Interesting!" Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. "You should read the last two emails I got."

"Nothing on now?"

"One of Mycroft's top secret affairs and two or three trifles." Sherlock answers dismissively.

"At least I'm glad I didn't miss the case of our lives then."

"I always text you when I need you around, don't I? He says, softly.

"I expect you do. Although," and there's a feigned expression of doubt on John's face as he proceeds slowly, "I wouldn't be so sure. Now that I think of it, you didn't seem to notice when I wasn't in the room. Or in the flat. You used to have entire conversations with me while I was out. I wonder if that has changed," he finishes frowning. He means it as a joke. He's proud he didn't sound reproachful. Well, _too_ reproachful.

_I'm a moth. A happy moth._

Sherlock just gives him a brief tight smile as a response and averts his eyes towards the skull on the fireplace. He says nothing, but his shoulders are tensed and the left side of his lips twitches slightly and he blinks very quickly a few times, like he always does when he's feeling nervous or confused.

Despite the warmth from the hearth, John suddenly shivers. He looks at the windows to see if they are tightly closed. To ease a rather peculiar pang in his throat, he takes a sip of his tea. It has gone cold. He clears his voice a bit before he starts talking again.

"It's... a bit chilly upstairs. I had forgotten how cold it gets up there in winter." Sherlock shrugs off the inane comment impatiently and turns round abruptly to survey the room as if searching for something. He gives a small 'Hmf!' and crosses the room with wide and eager strides.

"And I... had forgotten about this," he remarks glancing shortly at John and holding between his long fingers a square and yellow piece of paper he has picked up from the coffee table. "There's Chinese in the fridge," he says casually as he wraps his scarf round his neck and puts his coat on. "Oh, and don't touch the red containers, please."

"Are you going out? Now?" John asks a bit baffled at the unexpected change of plans.

"There's something I have to check. Might be a bit late, though. See you tomorrow." He opens the door. John gets up.

"You don't... er, want me to go with you?"

"Mmm, nope. You'd be in the way." He stops for a second at the doorway to look at John. "You already know where everything is. So. Bye then."

And John is left standing in the middle of the living-room, bewildered.

 

* * *

 

This is definitely not what he had in mind when he decided to spend the weekend at Baker Street.

John finishes the leftovers he finds in the fridge and wipes his hands and his mouth with a napkin. A sappy song coming from the telly fills the room as he surveys what is left of his dinner, laid out all over the dining table. John, refusing to feel depressed, discarded and alone, pushes the mute button angrily. It's not as if Sherlock has stood him up.

_God knows it wouldn't have been the first time, anyway._

John sighs in resignation. He is more than used to Sherlock's outbursts to feel _too_ surprised, but still, he had not imagined he would be spending the evening all alone on their first night together in the flat after more than two years.

All evening, Sherlock has been looking a bit distracted, absent-minded and, if only John didn't know better, uncomfortable or nervous.

_There's something he isn't letting me in on._

It has to be Mycroft's case, he concludes. He cannot see what else it could be.

He stares at the muted TV. On the screen, a couple of youngsters are crying and kissing and, apparently, suffering way too much. He grimaces and turns the telly off.

After cleaning up the table, John goes to the shelves and browses the books, searching for something to take to bed with him. It's still early for sleeping, but there's little else to do. He picks up what looks like a battered coffee table book about practical beekeeping, full of pictures and explanatory diagrams. Trust Sherlock to have such an eclectic book collection. He sneezes a couple of times and looks at the cover absently while he considers having a quick shower to warm up before going to bed.

Some time later, John's up in his bedroom, changing into his pyjamas, when he hears Sherlock coming in. He pauses and thinks about going down again but dismisses the idea. He has the whole weekend ahead and pressing Sherlock is of little to no use when he is in one of his moods. Instead, he gets into bed with the bees and tries to read himself to sleep.

Only that it's so cold in the room that he can hardly keep his teeth from chattering. He wraps the blanket closely about himself, but it's not enough. He has to hold the coffee table book which is just not meant for use in bed, and interesting as it is, is not worth letting his arms and chest freeze. He looks for his old cable knitted jumper, which is the only jumper he's brought from home, and rolls his eyes when he doesn't see it on the chair.

_Oh shit._

He must have left it on the hanger of the bathroom.

John does not give himself time to think it over. He jumps out of the bed, puts his old slippers on and goes down the stairs.

There's no one in the living room when he enters, and the lights are all off. On his tiptoes, he crosses the kitchen, peers carefully into the corridor and...

... And freezes.

A yellowish light seeps out from under Sherlock's slightly open door, but it is not the only thing that is coming from his room. There is also a series of low, unmistakable noises that leave John no room for doubt about what Sherlock is doing, at this very moment, on the other side of that door.

Slowly, a surprised John feels his lips widen into a naughty smile.

The almost constant nasal moans of pleasure, delivered between deep and loud gasps, as well as the lewd, rhythmic sounds of a wet hand stroking flesh, tell John that Sherlock is indeed having a _very_ good time alone.

John closes his eyes as he feels a strange wave of _something_ that he doesn't want to analyse.

He has not forgotten, how could he?

But so much, _so much_ has happened since then!

John laughs softly as he remembers the conversation that he and Sherlock had more than two years ago, and his own _tiny_ obsession for some months afterwards.

_It's true, then. Sherlock masturbates._

"Ah, yes, ah, yes." Sherlock's breathy voice comes through the half-closed door.

_And he enjoys it alright. Not as boring as breathing then, I reckon._

John stifles a nervous laugh and considers a retreat, but he needs the jumper and he doesn't want to make any noise.

_God. This is weird._

John wipes his hand across his face. He is blushing furiously and his heart is pounding in his chest.

"Ah, ah, mmm, ah, ah..."

It certainly looks like Sherlock enjoys having a good wank as much as the next man.

John bites his lips and gives a careful step towards the bathroom. Nothing creaks. He clenches a fist at the small victory.

The wet sounds increase in tempo and John can't help remembering one particular detail from their conversation.

_You're going to drink the Thames dry, tomorrow._

John has to bite back a laugh at that thought and shakes his head, feeling a little ashamed, a little _mortified_ even... but also... oddly happy, and mischievous, and nostalgic, and a bit turned on, and more than a bit _weirded ou_ t by his old and present self, and _out of place_ , of course, because he is, well, a man, and he is outside his best friend's bedroom, hearing him masturbating and having all sorts of feelings about it.

A low, deep and throaty groan, muffled somehow ( _by a pillow?_ ) is followed immediately by a squeaky bed noise. Sherlock must be approaching his release. The sounds of his hand quicken and then there's _oh, oh, oh, oh,_ a succession of soft whimpers uttered almost in a painfully restrained way.

John purses his lips in a silent whistle. Either Sherlock is always that vocal, or that must have been one hell of an orgasm. In any case and thank God, he's finished, so John can finally take his jumper, go back to his bed, learn the whole bee book by heart, why not, and go to sleep in hopes of dreaming about cottages and honey.

He waits in silence for a few minutes.

The light goes off.

He waits some more.

When he thinks it's safe enough, he retreats to the dining-room, opens and closes the door and proceeds through the kitchen to the bathroom in a nonchalant and carefree manner. The only reason he doesn't hum a song because he doesn't want to overdo it.

Once in the bathroom, he looks at the hanger, and when he doesn't see the jumper, looks around frowning...

_What the hell? I left it..._

... And then, realisation hits him like a blow.

All of a sudden, he feels ants on his arms and needles in his throat and he gasps because it's exactly as if someone has punched him just below his sternum.

He rubs his stomach, trying to soothe a pain which is not there, because Sherlock has taken his jumper and the world has stopped spinning and he wants to cry because he feels happy and terrified and he does not know, he doesn't have the faintest idea of _what_ , _exactly_ , he is feeling right now. He almost doesn't want to think about anything... about why his heart is racing or about why his palms are sweaty.

He is cold, but his cheeks are burning.

John sits on the lid of the toilet. He does not trust his knees or his blood-pressure.

_Sherlock._

_He had my jumper, there. With him._

He shivers and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. He is sweating.

He is scared of himself. Of reading too much or reading it all wrong as he always does with Sherlock.

_It's because of me, I know. Why else would he take my jumper? It's because of me, it's because of me!_

And he is exhilarated. And unbelievablysurprised at the fact.

But no, he doesn't know. Not for sure. Not with Sherlock. Nobody can take Sherlock for granted. And he wants to be wrong, doesn't he?

Doesn't he?

John tries to put his breath under control but no, he is still panting. His limbs are heavy and he doesn't think he can stand up for a while.

He did not expect that. Not from him.

_Yes, yes I did. Of course I did._

Expect? Or want?

_No, I didn't, he's my friend. He's just... my best friend._

He is over-excited and awfully tired and confused and... miserable. Yes. He doesn't understand anything. And what's more, he is not sure he actually wants to.

_Sherlock._

He wraps his arms around his belly. It aches, a little.

Right now, he only wants to be far, far away. He wants to crawl into Mary's lap because it's safe there. Nothing can ever go wrong in Mary's lap.

_Mary._

_Oh, Mary._

John experiences that all-too-familiar abdominal discomfort and thinks he is lucky to be in the toilet.

He has just had an epiphany and now...

Now he doesn't know himself anymore.

 

* * *

 

John doesn't sleep that night. He has to visit the toilet two more times.

The next morning, he dresses and goes down the stairs to the bathroom.

This time, his jumper is hanging there.

John takes it and puts it on without thinking about anything at all.

He uses the toilet, washes his hands, his face and his teeth. He looks at himself in the mirror. He'll shave later.

John goes to the kitchen and starts preparing breakfast. Old habits die hard.

Sherlock is already up, in his dressing-gown, reading the paper.

"Coffee?" John asks.

Sherlock contemplates him for a few seconds with a blank expression before answering.

"Yes, please."

John nods and thinks that his friend looks more relaxed today. He does not wonder why.

Only when everything is ready and laid on the table he dares ask,

"Are you finally going to tell me about Mycroft's case or not?"

"You're not drinking coffee."

"Nope. Just tea and toast for me today. Upset stomach."

"Oh," Sherlock grimaces for a second, then sighs and starts talking animatedly.

He seems to be in high spirits today.


	4. The Jumper II

Some months later, John is moving back to 221b Baker Street.

Autumn is already there, having found its way into the flat, uninvited, through the main door and up the seventeen steps of the staircase, through the cracks of the windows and the joints of the floorboards.

It's raining outside. John shivers as he closes the door behind him. He does not have to go out again today, and that makes him partially happy. Partially, because he is cold, his feet hurt, and there is a strange void where his stomach usually rests that, fortunately, he only feels when he stops to think.

Unfortunately, he thinks too much. Doubts still cloud his mind and he tends to forget that he and Mary have already taken a decision, that there is nothing to dwell on, not any longer. It is difficult to find something else to think about when everything else has been out of his mind for the last weeks.

John rubs his hands together and looks around. Mrs. Hudson seems to be out and there is no sound coming from upstairs.

He sighs. Perhaps some telly, then. He has to find something to divert his attention from...

His life with Mary has been... not easy. Not easy and just the right amount of normal. But that life is over now.

One way or another, he always knew that things would end this way. He is not religious, but sometimes he thinks that there is a hand, a big, ghostly hand that has already written the story of his life, that he has read but forgotten all about it. Almost all of it, except those little flashes of… he used to call them 'hope', certainly not 'precognition'. Like when he asked for a miracle. Like his nightmares about the battlefield. Missing danger. Missing Sherlock.

Now that it is all over, returning to Baker Street has been an easy decision. Without Mary's income, their house is far too expensive for his pocket, and Sherlock... Sherlock just assumed that he would come to live with him again.

There is still the other thing. The one hovering on his mind since the last time he spent the night here. The thing that gives him the most unwelcome, unexpected, and ridiculous fantasies, that makes him imagine the most absurd scenarios. Sometimes soppy sweet, sometimes hot and steamy, depending on the day and the mood. Seriously, he has watched porn much more realistic and plausible.

He is not delusional. Sherlock is a marble statue, a life-size Phidias's sculpture with his curls, his perfect body, his long neck, his beautiful hands and his cheekbones. But marble is hard, cold and self-sufficient. And John is the caring sort who likes warm things like cable knitted jumpers and tea. Well, to be entirely honest, he also is capable of dislocating and/or breaking bones, but never in this context.

Then again, Sherlock has needs. Needs of the sweaty, fleshy kind. He said that. He did not sound very romantic about it, that is true. Actually, he could have been complaining about how bothersome it is for him to blow his nose while he is working, how very tiresome the demands of his body are. That is, until John saw it with his own eyes: Sherlock's arousal, in front of him, in the middle of the day. He still remembers the two small, tight peaks trying to break through the threadbare fabric of his t-shirt, hard, wanting to be rubbed, to be teased, seeking attention desperately, like their owner usually does...

Would Sherlock like to blow anything else than his nose, though? John chuckled to himself at the crass joke.

Then, _that night_ happened, really happened. And the most revealing thing about it was how he had jumped to the conclusion that Sherlock had his jumper with him. How it had hit him, like a Cartesian certainty. It scares him, even now, to remember the tide of overwhelming and confused feelings of happiness, relief, guilt and sorrow that left him so absolutely shattered. It is frankly astonishing how overhearing your best friend tossing off can be so cathartic. Luckily for him, he still had Mary.

He is alone now, and what it came as a certainty has turned into doubt. Which would not be so unsettling, if there was not also an aching longing that haunts him night and day.

John looks at his hands, spreads his fingers and flexes them. They are steady. The skin is a bit dry, and he tells himself that he should start using hand cream. On the back of his hands.

A pang of heart-breaking loneliness prevents him from chuckling this time.

Perhaps a perfect marble statue can also enjoy a bit of self-indulgence. Maybe it had nothing to do with him, despite appearances.

With his luck, it probably will turn out that Sherlock just likes one particular cable knitted jumper.

"John?!" Sherlock's head pokes out from the sitting-room. John puts his hand to his chest at the sound and looks up.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" he says with a strangled voice, "I thought there was nobody home." He exhales deeply and tries to slow down his pounding heart.

"What are you doing there?"

"Nothing!" He pauses and then, in a quieter tone, "having a crisis."

"Why are you having a crisis?" John just looks at him, as if he were looking for an answer. "You wouldn't understand," he says, finally. Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but then he stops and shakes his head.

"Well, come up here, I need your hand. I don't have all day. You can continue with your crisis later."

"What? My hand? Which one?"

Sherlock does not answer. John sighs and starts mounting the stairs.

"Can I at least have a shower first?"

"Nope."

"Of course not. Well, what do you want me to…?"

"Here, hold this." John takes the jack-knife and eyes it with suspicion. Sherlock makes an impatient gesture. "As if you were going to use it, _please_. I thought you said you'd been a soldier."

Sherlock proceeds to take some pictures of him from different angles, and all the while John does as he is told, feeling self-conscious. After all, only a moment ago he remembered a certain event in which the jack-knife had a very relevant role.

The energy in the room is impossible to ignore. Sherlock's jumpy movements throw two teacups and a plate full of biscuits to the carpet. In five minutes there are crumbs all over the floor. Their eyes meet only on the screen of Sherlock's mobile phone.

John's first night officially back at Baker Street has all the tension of a backstage before an opening night.

"Tell me again, why are we doing this?"

John receives the expected answer.

"We're running a test."

"Yes, I've — I've already supposed that, but..."

"Then why do you ask?" Sherlock interrupts, curtly.

"What's the matter with you? Why are you so…?"

Nervous. The word is nervous, but John doesn't say it. Until now, it has not occurred to him that Sherlock could be nervous about the situation. He, coming back to Baker Street. Coming to stay. Unattached again. Can it be? Or is he reading too much into it?

"So… what? John, you've zoned out."

"Sorry."

Sherlock looks suddenly anxious. At least seven uncomfortable explanations seem to be crossing his mind.

"You… need 'to talk'."

"Talk? Talk about what?"

"How would I know? You were the one having a crisis downstairs. I'm your friend — your best friend in fact — so we can sort your crisis out. That's what friends do. We can go to a pub or..." If he looked anxious a moment ago, he is now clearly on the verge of panic.

"No, listen, Sherlock, I'm alright, it was not really a crisis."

"You can talk to me."

"I know, Sherlock, I know." John looks at the jack-knife in his hand and feels that he is not being entirely honest, because he doesn't know _if_ or _how_ to have a real conversation with Sherlock about his bisexual concerns. _I heard you that night. Were you thinking about me? Would you have sex with me? Would it change us that much? Would it change us to worse? I think I'm in love with you. I want to share myself with you. I adore your cheekbones._ He laughs quietly to himself and shakes his head. "Look, you know I don't really like talking about… stuff, ok? It's been too much, lately. I'm just trying to cope."

Sherlock, who has been observing John's face with a kind of confused interest, freezes abruptly and fixes his eyes on him with a strange expression. When he speaks, his voice sounds grave, solemn, but there is also a slight tremor that John does not miss.

"Take your time." The left lapel of his dressing gown pulses visibly with his heartbeat. "I will be here."

John doesn't reply at once. He stands at attention, with a knife in his hand and a look of mixed emotions on his face. A trained soldier with the eyes of a lost, hurt, hopeful love-struck puppy.

A siren goes off and neither of them seem to hear it. Then the front door opens and closes and Sherlock blinks. The fluttering of his eyelashes breaks the spell, and he directs his gaze to the window.

"You wanted a shower."

John clears his voice and nods.

"Yes, actually, yes. Are we finished?"

Sherlock raises his hand and glances to his mobile phone.

"Yes! I — I think I have enough. Anyway, it can wait. It's not... you… erm, should — you should have your shower," he finally manages to finish the sentence. It sounds almost normal. Almost. It's at moments like this that John really hates being even normally empathic.

"Yes! That's a — a great idea. I'll just… get some clothes and head to the bathroom."

He does as he says. In the bathtub, he reminds himself to apply some hand cream on the back of his hands after he is finished. After all, he doesn't need hand cream in the shower.

* * *

"How old is that jumper?" Sherlock asks with an amused frown later that evening. He is standing by the window, looking outside distractedly.

John is sitting in his armchair, enjoying his last cup of tea of the day and browsing a magazine. When he hears Sherlock's question, or more precisely, when he hears Sherlock mentioning the jumper, John feels his mouth go dry. Sure that he can't say a word with his sandpapered tongue, he drinks some tea before speaking.

"I don't know. Five years? Six? Why?"

"It's exactly as the last time I saw it. How is it that nobody has puked on it yet?"

"Because I don't wear it to the clinic, that's why. But it's comfortable and I like to wear it at home." He replies nonchalantly, but his mind is boiling. Dozens of overlapping fantasies, old and new, fight for his attention, in a brainstorm that would arouse the envy of the vast majority of fanfiction writers. When he decided to put his old jumper on, he was expecting some kind of reaction from Sherlock, but not such a straightforward remark.

Here it is, John thinks. This is the signal he has been waiting for.

Carefully, as a photographer would do with a wild animal that could jump away at any moment, he puts the magazine on the floor and sits up in his armchair.

"Sherlock,"

"Hmm?" He doesn't move.

"You... mentioning the jumper, is it an opening?"

"An opening?"

"You know," John licks his lips, "to talk."

John cannot see it, but Sherlock's eyes widen and his hand releases the curtain. He wouldn't turn around slower if he were carrying a bomb.

"To talk about what?"

"You know about what."

Time stops in 221b Baker Street, as Sherlock and John look at each other, as the word 'sex' materializes between them, once again, in the form of a black and heavy cloud fully charged of electricity.

Sherlock wears a strange perplexed expression, a mixture of astonishment and fear.

"You knew."

"You left the door open."

Sherlock blushes. It is an enticing view, and John's heart starts to pump faster.

"You expect me to explain," Sherlock says.

"No, I just… wondered…"

Sherlock nods and scratches the back of his head and shifts nervously.

"I only took it once. That one," he waves his hand in a flourish, "or any other of your clothes. I'm not — I know what it looks like but I'm not… Well, I have taken your things many times but not to use them as... I mean, _not_ for… _that_. It was only once."

John feels Sherlock's embarrassment as if it were his. He raises his hands in a silent stop signal.

"No, look, I'm not asking… God, I just wondered why."

"Why."

"Why did you take it?"

Sherlock feels lost and doesn't conceal it.

"You weren't supposed to be there. I thought you were asleep."

"The door was open, Sherlock. I could come down. I did come down."

Sherlock only shrugs a shoulder and blinks a few times.

"You know that. You _knew_ that."

Sherlock does it again. He stands there, blinks and shrugs the same shoulder.

"What do you want me to say?"

John is not a consulting detective, but he can read body language. He considers himself the closest to an expert on Sherlock's body language, and right now he has the defeated attitude of a criminal found guilty.

_He is not even trying to pretend_ , John thinks. _He wants us to have this conversation._

There is a familiar heat coursing through his veins and a tickling sensation all over his skin that he has felt many times before. Pent up excitement and anticipation.

He inhales deeply.

_Let's have this conversation then._

Getting up from his armchair, John approaches the table in the small, slow steps of someone who has been hours in a waiting room. He picks up another magazine and browses through it as if he were deciding whether to read it or not.

"You left the door open on purpose, didn't you?" John's voice is so low that he almost whispers, and he only raises his eyes when he finishes the sentence.

Sherlock barely moves his head, but John sees the minuscule nod. A tiny movement that raises hope — and other things — in John Watson's body. He clears his voice, licks his lips again and swallows. For a moment, as his brain works at full speed with the blood that is not flowing to other parts of his anatomy, he feels dizzy.

"It turned you on. The possibility of getting caught." It's almost a shot in the dark.

The tiny shrug again. John observes it with the magazine forgotten on his hands.

"God, Sherlock," he says in a whisper.

"It's not — it is not an exhibitionistic disorder."

The corners of John's mouth curl into an insecure smile.

"I'm... glad for you?"

"The risk of discovery heightens sexual pleasure for many people. Apparently I'm one of them."

The embarrassment seems to have left Sherlock's face, and now there is a calculating expression in his eyes. This time is John's turn to look lost. He remembers the magazine on his hands and opens it, scans a random page and closes it again.

"That's why you left the door open, hmm?" He asks to an innocent chipped mug that is resting on the table.

"I thought it would help."

"Help?"

"Make it better."

"Make it better," John repeats.

"You know, enhance the experience!"

John clears his throat.

"With my jumper."

"It smelled like you."

John's face reddens as he processes the information. He starts laughing, although he doesn't particularly want to. Confused as hell and absolutely terrified of the possibility that he could be misreading Sherlock, John sets the magazine on the table with a slap and looks at the ceiling.

"Look Sherlock, I'm not as bright as you are…," he says.

"Nope."

"...so I might be reading this all wrong."

"Might be."

Hurt is displayed so plainly on John's half open lips and on the tilt of his head, that the gasp he unconsciously utters seems superfluous. However, before he has the time to purse his lips, say 'okay' and bolt from the room, Sherlock speaks again.

"But you're not."

"What?"

"You're not reading this all wrong."

"Sherlock."

"John, I didn't — I didn't know you knew that I took your jumper."

John shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes fixed on Sherlock.

"I — I don't understand."

"I didn't tell you about — about this, because I thought you weren't interested, John." Sherlock's voice sounds grave, but there is a shade of softness in his eyes, a tender hint of a smile on his lips.

John watches this and remembers all the other times he has made himself vulnerable in front of Sherlock. He knows he is going to be on the receiving end of the joke, that in five minutes at most he is going to be crying tears of laughter, deceptive and dangerous as broken glass.

He frowns, shakes his head and asks.

"Interested?"

Sherlock spreads his arms in a here-I-am gesture.

"In me."

John breathes in and out as Sherlock's words sink in.

"Sherlock," he whispers hoarsely, because this kind of treacherous hope is painful as death.

"I — I tried to tell you once, when I thought you were happy, with Mary. But I didn't dare."

"God help me, Sherlock, if this is a joke, I…"

"John, this time I know how you feel…"

"You? Know how I feel? How?"

Sherlock half raises a hand to point at John.

"Your jumper."

"What?"

"Your jumper. You've been wearing it. You know what I have done with it and you keep wearing it. You're wearing it today."

John stares at Sherlock for a few seconds, with his mouth slightly open. Then he blinks rapidly and lowers his eyes, chuckling.

"Amazing," he says to his feet.

"What?"

"You." He raises his head to look at Sherlock, his face serious again. "You are amazing."

"I love it when you say that," Sherlock replies immediately. He is smiling, but he also looks on the verge of tears.

John brushes his nose with the back of his fingers and swallows thickly.

"Yeah, I know."

"I love you, John."

John receives the tearful declaration like a bullet. It deafens him. It silences him. It opens his chest and pierces his heart and it's painful. Suddenly there is no air in his lungs and he thinks he is going to die, because love, and happiness, and fulfilled hope are too big, too heavy, too overwhelming to be felt all at once. He manages to gulp some air and whimpers as he lets it out. The sound is too loud, but at least it wakens him from his trance.

"Oh, God, Sherlock," he says in a breathy tone as he takes the two steps that separate him from his friend. "Come here, please, come here," he asks anyway, although he is already wrapping his arms around Sherlock's body.

There is a damp smell in the room that makes heaven less than perfect, but John buries his nose in Sherlock's hair and an intoxicating fragrance fills his senses. Heaven now smells like Taylor of Old Bond Street.

"I thought you liked women," says a nasal voice.

"I like women."

"I thought you only liked women," the same voice rectifies.

"I hit on you and you turned me down, remember?" says John as he inhales deeply, closes his eyes and tries to fix this instant in his mind. He is old enough to know that perfect happiness is a rare occurrence, born of ridiculously simple moments, and always brief and extremely expensive.

Sherlock frees himself from John's arms and fixes on him his reddened, watery eyes.

"When."

"The first night we spent together. At Angelo's. Don't you remember?"

A gurgling sniff seems to answer John's question, but this is Sherlock, and Sherlock always talk.

"You said you weren't hitting on me. I thought I had misinterpreted you."

"I lied."

"Why."

"You said you were married to your work."

Sherlock frowns.

"I liked you," he admits, "I felt attracted to you, in an abstract and puzzling way."

"Then why did you turn me down?"

"I considered myself married to my work."

John's expressive face says everything.

"I've lost the count of the times you've said you're not gay." Sherlock insisted.

John smiles with his eyes.

"I'm not gay," he declares. The smile reaches his lips.

Sherlock tries to speak with his face as well as John does, but then again, this is Sherlock.

"John, you want to get in my pants. That makes you gay."

"Sherlock, I want to get in your pants. That makes me bisexual."

There is a pregnant silence during which the two men only stare at each other. John breathes deeply. He feels lighter than before.

"This is the first time I've said it aloud," he says.

A tear rolls down Sherlock's cheek.

"I've imagined this moment. Dreamt about it hundreds of times."

John remembers his most saccharine dreams. The ones in which he could behave as a foolish romantic without being laughed at. This is not a dream. This is the real thing. This is the right person.

"Sherlock," he says, and coughs to put under control his trembling voice, "I've felt this way for a long time. This is not — this is not new. I've lost you. I've missed you. I've mourned you." His voice wavers with emotion. "I feel as if I had known you for more than a century and I feel that — that this is the right time." He sobs. "Let us have this. I love you. Let me in, please."

The sound that Sherlock makes with his nose might be disgusting for some people, but right now John thinks it is the cutest thing in the world.

"You haven't kissed me yet," Sherlock complains.

"I love you so much."

Sherlock blinks fresh tears and sniffs again.

Getting on tiptoes, John wipes his cheeks with his lips. Sherlock's shivering eyelashes tickle his face as nervous butterflies. Love tastes salty.

"I love you," he says once more just before he kisses Sherlock on his mouth.

At first they stay immobile, joined by their lips like two kissing figurines. But Sherlock is marshmallow soft and John is not porcelain. So, after a few heartbeats, the hypnotic sound of kisses starts to replace the silence.

They go slow. Sherlock utters little nasal moans and jerks in surprise every time that John sucks or bites slightly his lush, full lips. Their faces are still wet with tears and their bodies tremble with emotion. John can feel Sherlock's heartbeat. His breath is loud and hot.

When John begins to use his tongue, a tremor runs through the body in his arms, and there is a longer, louder moan that John tries to quieten with a groan of his own. It doesn't work.

Sherlock wriggles and opens his mouth wide to invite John in. Although it is evident that he finds difficult to breathe, the sounds he makes and his clear enthusiasm in the kiss are burning hot as fresh made tea.

John wants to savour this. He wants them to have the most romantic, the slowest first kiss that they can endure. He wants to share with Sherlock a part of himself that he has not shown to anyone else. However, as soon as he thinks this, Sherlock interrupts the kiss, disentangles himself from John and stands panting as a dog in the summer heat. He is very red in the face.

"What's the matter?"

"I cannot breathe. I'm suffocating."

"I'm sorry, I didn't notice you were…"

"No, it's not your fault," Sherlock says with a falter in his voice. "I've never done this before. I thought it was easier."

"You — you mean you…?" John is so baffled that he cannot finish the question.

"I've never — I'm kind of…, I — I want to try everything with you." He swallows before he adds, "for the first time."

Anyone who has ever called John 'slow' would feel reassured in their opinion if they saw him gaping at Sherlock in astonishment.

"But, you… Janine and you…"

Sherlock only shrugs.

John smiles with uncertainty as a thousand of rainbows and fireworks explode in his brain in a happy celebration. Poor Janine, he thinks, in the only quiet corner of his mind.

Out loud, he says, "You... have... to breathe through your nose," and waves a finger at Sherlock's face. "That's the trick."

"I can't. It's blocked."

John shakes his head and frowns, confused once more. His smile broadens.

"Blow your nose?"

"I — I'd rather blow you."

There are a lot of things he can expect from the lips of a virgin detective. This is not one of them. He also remembers that he made the same joke — to himself — this very evening when he got home. There is a limit for the amount of happy and shocking news that a human can receive before cracking. John has reached that limit, so he lets out a tittering laugh.

"That's not the reaction I was expecting," says Sherlock, looking offended. He takes a tissue from the box on the table and blows his nose.

"It's nothing," John explains, shaking his head. "I wondered once if you'd like to…, you know."

"It's my favourite fantasy," Sherlock admits, wiping his nose. "You, shutting me up," he throws the tissue and continues pronouncing very carefully, lowering the pitch of his voice, "plugging my mouth with your dick..." He reddens as he says this, half with embarrassment, half with arousal.

The smile on John's face disappears slowly. On the contrary, his pupils dilate in record time. He licks his lips and begins to breathe through his mouth as he fixes his eyes on Sherlock's lips.

"Sherlock, you have a filthy mouth," he says huskily.

"Not filthier than my mind. You can make it dirtier, if you like. Fill it with your semen."

John exhales and closes his eyes.

"Your voice. I love your voice."

"I like it when I imagine things like that. It turns me on. I'm saying them aloud to see if it works on you."

"A bit of dirty talk. Your voice. Of course it works," John says with a growl as he seizes Sherlock's head and proceeds to plunder his mouth as deeply as he can.

Sherlock moans and shivers and tries to stick himself to John's chest without making the kiss more difficult. Considering the difference in height, that turns out very uncomfortable, so he interrupts the kiss again and shifts to align his hips to John's.

"I'm wetting my pants," he says, pushing his groin forward to prove it.

The image enters John's mind with the speed of a dart, and the effect is quite similar to having received a lobotomy: in an instant, every rational thought flows out through the small and imaginary hole opened by the imaginary dart.

"Oh, Sherlock," he moans weakly and drops to his knees, "may I see it? May I have some?"

Sherlock moans in return and put his hands to his groin. John's hands are quicker. He unfastens the button, unzips the trousers and bares the glorious sight of the front of Sherlock's pants, all swollen and soaked with pre-seminal fluid. John lets out a pathetic whimper.

"I told you. I could fill a bucket. It's always so messy," says Sherlock, trying to open his Spencer Hart trousers wider so they don't get stained with his pre-ejaculate.

"Ahh, it is true," agrees John, touching the wet fabric reverently, withdrawing his fingers slowly to see how far the fragile thread of thick fluid can stretch without breaking.

"I was right. You _are_ a pervert." Sherlock says, but he also pushes his hips forward in a silent request for more contact.

"Oh, Sherlock," John whines as he rubs his thumb against his index and middle finger. "Mrs. Hudson."

"She's out."

"How do you know?"

"I know. Do something." Sherlock sounds desperate.

"Ah, yes," he says, coming to his senses and getting to his feet. He pauses to look at Sherlock, standing there in his posh dressing gown and his open trousers. "I've been so afraid of imagining you like this." He kisses Sherlock and strokes his back with his right hand. His left hand is, at the moment, not suitable for touching any clothes.

"Why?" Sherlock asks between kisses.

"It hurt. I didn't have the right."

"I know." He pushes John gently away, slides his dressing gown off his shoulders and starts to undo his shirt. "After your wedding, I almost masturbated to death. I hated myself after every time."

John's hands falter as he unbuttons his jeans. Loneliness is an icy breeze that reaches his very core. He takes Sherlock's hand and squeezes it.

"I dreamt about you. In bed, with her. I dreamt about you."

"I tried to… with Janine. I tried imagining that I was you," he says with a faraway look on his face. "It was very arousing at first. It felt so…," he smiles at the memory, "intimate, being you." He shakes his head. "But then… It's was hard…," he chuckles, "or I should say not hard at all."

John attempts a smile despite the grimace of misery on his face.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock moves his eyes towards his groin and drops John's hand.

"I have to take these off," he explains, casting a quick glance at his trousers. He starts to pull them off with both of his hands, but using only the tips of the fingers of the right.

"Are we doing this here?"

"Yes. Right here."

"Okay." John nods and removes his shoes and his jeans. He is going to take his jumper off when Sherlock stops him.

"No, leave it on. I want to feel it solid."

"Solid?"

"With you inside it," he explains as he pulls off his pants. He has left only his socks on.

John looks at Sherlock's bare penis, half-hard and glistening, and under his scrutiny it grows longer, bigger, bobbing rhythmically until it gets completely erect. When John, mesmerized, licks his lips, a thick glob of pre-cum oozes from the slit and falls in a thread to the carpet.

"We'll have to clean this later," Sherlock says, although John knows he really means 'you', not 'we'. He doesn't care. He would clean it with his tongue, anyway.

Taking a single step, Sherlock kneels down, places his fingers on John's underwear and carefully uncovers his erection. He utters a profound sigh.

"John," he says, and he kisses the tip of the penis in front of his face. "I'll do the best I can."

He does. He starts smelling John's cock, which John finds unbearably erotic. He strokes it with his long hands, laps at the head and kisses it. He looks up into John's eyes and sighs and licks it all over while his hands take turns to roam and explore the body hidden under the jumper. He seems to be honestly enjoying the job.

By the time he has John panting and leaking on his tongue, Sherlock looks thoroughly wrecked: his face, his neck and the upper part of his chest are bright pink and shiny with sweat, his lips are wet and swollen and there is a mixture of spit and pre-cum dripping down his chin. He also keeps servicing John as if he can't get enough. He has not touched himself.

John sees all this and swears under his breath. Sherlock moans and begins sucking him in earnest. He is not very experienced, but his intention is good. John swears again and Sherlock moans louder, kneading John's buttocks and encouraging him to fuck his mouth.

John obeys for ten seconds and then he groans.

"Oh, Sherlock, stop, please stop," he begs, whimpering.

Sherlock stops.

"I've hurt you."

"No, no, no, love," John says, panting. He looks down to the floor and, even half-blind as he is after Sherlock's ministrations, he sees a big, dark stain on the carpet and a thread of pre-cum oozing continuously from Sherlock's neglected cock. "Oh, Sherlock, look at you… look at you." John kneels down and rubs his fingers against the stain on the carpet, and then he dangles his fingers on the leaking fluid before he finally takes Sherlock's cock in his hand. He starts to masturbate Sherlock very carefully.

"Ahh, John" Sherlock's body tenses at the first contact, but he soon relaxes and lets out a deep, lustful moan. His eyes travel from his crotch up to John's face and back down again, as if he couldn't actually believe that the hand stroking him so tenderly does belong to John. He sobs and shivers. He looks completely, utterly smitten.

John is panting and unconsciously licking his lower lip, and so aroused that he is unaware of the frankly lascivious expression he wears on his face.

"It was true, there's enough for the two of us," he says. He has collected some drops on the other palm and he is rubbing his own cock with it. He finds Sherlock's pre-cum irresistible.

"Ah, John," repeats Sherlock, grabbing the jumper and trying to catch John's lips. The kiss is sloppy, uncoordinated, awkward, but also as luscious and passionate as first time kisses are.

"Lie back," John says, mouthing Sherlock's chin, "I want to get on top."

"Hmm, yes, ahh," Sherlock moans constantly now, and John trembles with the overwhelming sensory and emotional overload.

They both sigh when John covers most of Sherlock's body with his own. Their eyes meet.

They start grinding their hips in a slow, leisure motion. There is lubricant enough for it. The skin to skin sensation is so warm and fulfilling that John almost regrets having the jumper on. Almost, because every time he lowers his chest, the thick layer of knitted wool provides a rough rub surface to Sherlock's very erect nipples.

John tries to use his fingers on Sherlock's chest, but to no avail, since he is resting most of his weight on his elbows. Sherlock simply slips his hand inside the jumper and starts to rub the material against his nipples. He rolls his eyes back with pleasure and opens his mouth in a silent scream. At the same time, he tenses his buttocks and increases the rhythm.

John, like in a mirror, opens his mouth too. He is so drunk with love that he almost forgets himself. There is only Sherlock.

He sobs.

"This is, ah, this is, ah, oh Sherlock, you're so gorgeous, oh, look at me."

Sherlock takes out his hand from under the jumper and catches John's face in both hands. He doesn't speak, but his eyes are sparkling.

"I've loved you so much, oh, all this time," says John, whimpering.

A frown appears on Sherlock's brow. He gasps. John tries to kiss his mouth but he misses it and kiss his left cheekbone. It's alright. Sherlock captures his lips and gives him a proper kiss. A salty kiss.

"Oh, Sherlock!"

With his cheeks flushed and wet, Sherlock smiles at him and sneaks a hand between them. He grabs a cock. Not his own.

"Yes, oh, yes, good idea," John says breathily. He sits up on his knees, takes Sherlock's cock and begins to move his fist purposefully. The sound it makes is vile, filthy. The glossy head appears and disappears between his fingers as he slides the foreskin over it and back down again.

"Oh, oh, oh…" Sherlock mimics his movements. John swears and rocks his hips to fuck Sherlock's hand.

"Yes, my love, talk to me, tell me how you like it, oh baby." John licks his lower lip and circles his thumb over the tip of Sherlock's penis. It's smooth and a little sticky, like wet candy. John's mouth waters.

"Ah, ah, harder, harder, ah, ah," cries Sherlock, grabbing John's jumper with his free hand.

John bites his lower lip.

"Like this?" he asks. He looks at Sherlock's face and sees the nod. He speeds up. The cock in his hand oozes more pre-cum and twitches. "Oh, Sherlock, oh, Jesus, fuck." Sherlock is grunting softly, one hand twisting the jumper in a vicious grip, the other hand, moving still, but erratically, on John's cock. He is close. He is almost there.

"Oh, John!" He cries and his fist stops. His hips jerk upwards as the first spurt of semen squirts out from his cock and lands on the corner of his mouth. He shudders and ejaculates again.

"Jesus, Sherlock," says John, breathing heavily. He knows that nobody has ever seen Sherlock like this. That knowledge exhilarates him. He laughs huskily, and it's not until he sees Sherlock's frown that he realises he is crying.

"I'm just happy," he explains smiling and trying to stop the tears.

Sherlock just chuckles. He looks relaxed and in love.

John sighs and takes himself in hand. His erection is hard and sticky.

"May I?" he asks as he smears Sherlock's mess on his chest and stomach. It is already a bit gluey and not suitable as a lubricant, but John is extremely sentimental about it.

He starts jerking off slowly. Foreign and familiar at the same time, the image of the man in front of him surpasses any previous experience or the wildest fantasy he has ever had.

This is real. He can touch him. He can see new moles and soft body hair, and Sherlock's navel. He could see more hidden things if he wanted to. Oh, he'll want to. Definitely.

He gasps, and shivers with pleasure.

His friend, his companion, his other half. Even covered in sweat and spunk, he is the most admirable, perfect and human human being in the whole world. And he is going to come all over his body.

"I adore you," he breathes, hovering on the verge of orgasm.

Sherlock only smiles lovingly and puts out his tongue to lick a drop of semen from the corner of his lips.

John's hand falters.

"Oh!" He cries, and then he comes all over Sherlock.

The sound of laughter is audible from the sitting-room. Sherlock and John are in the bathroom. They are sharing the shower.

The sitting-room is empty. There is nobody there to feel jealousy, or joy, or relief, or to make a triumphant comment of the likes of "I knew it!" or "I told you so!"

There are some silent witnesses, though. The ones that always see everything but never speak. Not in this kind of story, anyway. John's jumper lies on the floor, a bit dirty and smelly. There is also a half-full bottle of water resting on the table. And finally, standing upright but slightly tilted, just as if it were bowing to an audience, the jack-knife keeps together the unpaid bills on top of the fireplace.


End file.
